


Yes

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Supernatural AU: Croatoan/End'verse, asexual!Cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-31
Updated: 2011-10-31
Packaged: 2017-10-25 03:23:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/271191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>asexual!Cas fic</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yes

**Author's Note:**

> Additional Warnings: explicit descriptions of sex and masturbation--but not written with the intention of porn (not deliberately trying to get people off in other words); vessel centric consent issues; self-destructive behavior (alcohol, drugs)
> 
> Characters/ships: asexual!Castiel/Dean (kinda one-way though, I guess? It's not really a ship piece if that's what you're looking for, but it's not really pre-slash either).

“He said yes,” Dean said like he had said so many other times.

Castiel leaned towards Dean from the back seat of the car. “We don’t know why.”

Dean looked back at him through the mirror, his eyes big and green and unfocused.

“They always said we’d say yes,” Dean mumbled.

“Not you,” Castiel said. “You won’t say yes.”

Dean pressed his foot against the gas pedal. The force pushed Castiel back into the seat and he let his neck rest against the leather.

He was surprised when he felt the skin stick with sweat to the seat.

He didn’t mention it to Dean.

They said nothing for miles, not until Dean pulled off to the side, booked them a room in a two-bit motel with peeling, faded wallpaper and stained carpet. Dean sat on one of the two queens, knees spread, hands clasped between them. Castiel watched him from the window.

Sometimes Dean looked up at Castiel, and his pupils were dilated (barely a hint of green), lips parted as his tongue licked them, eyes focused on Castiel’s mouth. Castiel knew what it meant, so he went to Dean, stood at the threshold of the space between Dean’s legs. “Dean,” he said.

Dean looked up. “Cas?” He bit his lips, eyes counting Castiel’s buttons as they traveled down his chest. “I won’t say yes. We can still fix this.”

Castiel couldn’t tell if it was a question or not, so he put his hand on Dean’s shoulder. “I know.” He gripped him tight, like he had done before, when he had been an angel of the Lord, a soldier of heaven, a wavelength of celestial intent, and maybe that was why being stuck in this too-small human vessel always felt so empty because confined in this body with its bones, with its boundaries and lines and possibilities as scripted by the laws of physics, there was no direction, and he was useless in this body, unable to save Sam, unable to stop the apocalypse, unable to serve God like he had once done so well.

“How do you know?” Dean said, tugging Castiel forward by the waist.

Castiel stepped forward, closer into the v of Dean’s parted legs. He didn’t say because he delivered Dean’s soul from the sword, that he delivered Dean from the snarling power of the hellhounds, from every devil. When Dean unbuckled the belt slung loose around him, Castiel assisted, even pulled down the zipper, and was surprised to see that the boxers were slightly tented, and he wondered if it was the tattered fragments of Jimmy’s soul doing that. Even though JImmy was long gone, had been long gone, soul and presence since departed, it was hard for Castiel not to wonder which was angel, which was not, as he continued to fall.

Dean mouthed at it, and it became firmer, swelling beneath his hot, damp breath.

“You first,” Castiel said, kneeling away from Dean’s hand. “You always come first.” And he freed Dean’s erection, put his mouth on it and, because he had remade Dean, he knew which bundles of nerves provided the greatest pleasure, which ones made his breath hitch, which ones made him moan, which ones made him grip Castiel by the nape, fingers strung tight through his hair, pushing him further down until his throat fluttered soft around Dean’s cock, whispering that the problem with Dean was that he had no faith, as he tried to find him, seeking him, swallowing all of him whole when Dean came with a grunt and a groan.

Dean was shiny with sweat. Breathless.

But still hopeless. Still faithless.

Castiel didn’t expect anything else.

Even the entire strength of heaven could not have made Dean Winchester anyone but whom he was.

Dean pulled Castiel closer, and he was still only half hard, so Dean rubbed him to firmness, jacking him and it was warm and Castiel counted the threads of Dean’s t-shirt, tracked a small bead of sweat dripping down the tower of his neck, glazing the tensing tendon there.

Perhaps, if he stared hard enough, he’d find the pieces of Dean that were hard to see now. His soul, the way it shone. The threads of grace stitching him whole and together.

Castiel saw nothing but scarred skin smattered with freckles. Sometimes a mole. A scar or two.

Castiel wasn’t expecting Dean’s wet mouth on him, the slick slide of his tongue against his cock as sweat trickled down the back of Castiel’s knees—like he was melting wax, like he was poured out like water until there was nothing left but a hollow vessel—Dean’s insistent suck and hum as a vague warmth settled in the balls of Castiel’s feet, edged up his shins, almost made its way to his knees before ebbing back again, and Dean bobbed faster and faster as he took one of his hands from Castiel’s testicles, pulled Castiel’s wrist back so that Castiel was palming the back of his neck while the other hung loose at his thigh.

Dean pulled off, not looking at Castiel and Castiel wished that he would. “Cas” he said, finally, his voice wound tight, stuttering against his teeth.

“What?” Castiel said.

“Why aren’t you—” Dean gestured vaguely. “We’ve been going at it—my throat is sore, my jaw aches like—and you don’t do anything, you don’t say anything.” Dean went to his feet, hands palming his jaw. “Did you—did you even want this?”

“I do. I did,” Castiel said.

“I can’t tell.”

Castiel tucked himself back in, hard on already mostly gone. He went close to Dean, and Dean stiffened, but did not pull away. “I’m an angel.”

And Dean laughed, coarsely, and said that he was going to go to bed and to not stare at him while he slept because it was still creepy.

So he went to the bathroom, quietly closed the door behind him. Looked at Jimmy Novak’s face in the mirror.

Before, he hadn’t talked to Jimmy Novak much. Sometimes, Jimmy Novak wanted things. Like the hamburgers. And other things that Castiel didn’t understand because the human voice was clumsy and small and fragile, so Castiel had stuffed Jimmy with hamburgers to shut him up but still the want had consumed him, want and want and want and, feeling the warmth from Dean’s mouth spreading half-heartedly through his legs, Castiel wondered if part of that want hadn’t been sex either with someone else or with just his hand and Castiel closed his eyes, leaned close to the mirror until his lips almost touched the smooth glass.

And Jimmy just wanted and wanted because he had said yes and he was hungry and needing but Castiel was denying, and Castiel said to the mirror, “Not to that you didn’t not to that—” and Castiel shuddered, hips hard against the porcelain sink, fingers gripping the edges, getting wet from the soap scum, because that was what Jimmy Novak had screamed—if he hadn’t already forgotten his words—when Castiel had stood over Jesse, the anti-christ, a child.

Not to this, I hadn’t said yes to this, you goddamned bastard.

Castiel leaned his forehead against the mirror, smudging the glass with his oil and sweat.  _Did you do that, Jimmy? Did you make me hard?_

When Castiel wandered from the bathroom, Dean pretended to be asleep, his back round and facing away from Castiel. So he went to the other, laid down on top of the covers. It was dark when he closed his eyes because if he forgot to do so occasionally, Jimmy’s eyes would water—but when he opened them, it was dim with a rising sun and he had a chill because that’s what happened when he didn’t sleep under the covers, as Dean informed him, words edged with something that Castiel didn’t understand.

He put his feet on the floor. “I wasn’t asleep.” He stood, surprised that the muscles were stiff, that there was pain like all his bones were out of joint.

“You were, dude. Snoring too.” Dean popped open the plastic from a piece of pie from a corner gas store. “Thought angels don’t sleep.”

_Did you do that Jimmy? Did you make me tired? Did you dry up my strength?_

They had sex a few more times. Castiel made Dean come and Dean tried to make Castiel come. They masturbated together and as Dean stroked himself to orgasm, Castiel jacked himself on, following Dean’s lead. Dean watched him, until he got hungry and went out for takeout.

Castiel sat on the bed. He had seen Dean’s face slip as he watched Castiel masturbate, and Castiel understood that something was happening, that this inability of Castiel to come either by Dean’s hand or even by his own was not what Dean needed, not what Dean wanted, and Castiel had watched humans on earth for millennia, and he jacked himself harder, faster until the flush almost crept past his knees, and then his penis was sensitive, so sensitive, so he let up, let up as much as he could until he began again because he knew what happened when people stopped talking, when somebody cried out and nobody answered because that’s how people fell and didn’t stop falling, how worlds ended as he desperately thrust up into the tunnel of his fist.

Dean came back with food, put it on the table. Stood beside him, hand on his shoulder for a brief moment. “Cas. Let’s eat. I got apple pie.”

They tried to save the world, even as its tail spun. Castiel hated being useless so he learned how to shoot a gun. Learned how to drive. Still hadn’t managed the hang of sleeping through the night, feeling rested in the day, but a lot of other people couldn’t do that either, just couldn’t let it get to him—so he learned to stifle his yawns. Taught the rag tag group of hunters and civilians about strategy because no one had been a soldier for as long as he had. Learned that talking to Jimmy in front of a mirror made Dean look at him with his eyebrows crooked all funny, like Cas was funny, like he was crazy, and Castiel wondered, knuckles gripped white as he looked at Dean but at himself out of the corner of his eye, if this was really, really his face now and his belly flipped out of him even as the sprain in his shoulder twinged, reminding him that it had been hurting for days, that it was healing humanly slowly, and that this was his face now.

“I’ve become a stranger to my brothers,” he said, his voice hoarse in his dried throat. “An alien to my Father’s children.”

“Come on, Cas,” Dean said. “Like that’s anything new.”

“I did it for you, Dean” – but Dean had already turned away, uncapping a cold beer and gulping it down whole as Castiel turned away from the mirror, pushed his way through his curtain of beads, walked around the borders of Camp Chitaqua because human legs were too short and weak for anything else, anything more, and besides there were croats in the great beyond, in that place that had once been earth, his father’s greatest creation.

He returned only when hunger made it unbearable. Refused to eat the hamburgers that Dean had made from the butchering of their final cows.

Castiel still hadn’t learned how to come, and he had learned that when Dean was wanting sex it wasn’t with Castiel so he stopped asking because he hated seeing Dean say no, no, no, all the time.

It wasn’t until he broke his foot, not until he was laid up for days, eating food without finding it, planning attacks without participating in them, drinking alcohol without sharing it, that Castiel finally learned how to come. Learned that when his mind was heavy with drugs and a dull ache of pain, too tired to look at something else, eyes already half lidded, almost asleep, jacking off mindlessly because he had to learn so that Dean would say yes, would want to look at him like he had before, would offer their bodies to each other and remember, that it snuck on him, molecules vibrating, hot with something like urgency, an urgency that was nothing like the purpose Castiel had once been, his own molecules and atoms flung so far across space.

And it was over and his hand and his sheets and his stomach were sticky but the response had sent him over the edge into sleep, the soundest sleep he had ever experienced since he had started to need sleep, and maybe it was the drugs and maybe it was the orgasm, but Castiel knew that he could never go back to before, to the minutes and the seconds hooking into his skin, trying to peel him apart, to feeling every ache and pain and itch.

Being drugged, spinningly drunk, could never bring him as high as he had once been, so completely uncontained, and the hallucinations he sometimes saw didn’t frighten him because he could almost pretend he wasn’t blind, that he was seeing something more, something beyond—seeing almost like an angel one more time.

And he could never go back.

Not even when he knocked on Dean’s cabin, swaying with alcohol, favoring his broken foot, as he said, “I can do it, Dean, I can do it.”

And Dean looked at him, up and down, mouth pressed tight together, eyes green and hard. “Sleep it off, Cas. Just sleep it off.”

So Castiel did after coaxing himself to orgasm so that his body would be tired. As he drifted off, limbs too heavy, so heavy—he knew what happened during REM, the near paralytic dead weight of his muscles tying him to earth, turning him into a marble statue, even has his mind roamed almost free—he wondered if this was what dying into dust felt like.

If it was the same for angels and humans.

If that, at least, was a language they could speak the same.

That they could understand.

And then he slept, and did not wake until hours and hours and hours had passed without feeling like anything at all.


End file.
